


Atonement

by pettiot



Series: Threshold [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Aging, Drabble Sequence, Duty, Dystopia, Loss, New Beginnings, a slow apocalypse for ivalice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:16:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23156182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: The trouble with passing time is that every year devalues itself as currency.
Series: Threshold [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664512
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

The Wood's canopy was an imperfect veil: a distant sun struck Jote's spine like swords of light. As they were placed, Jote could not have seen Mjrn's fascination. A curious trick of shadow to have Fran's daughters look so much like him, a taint as clear as their shortened ears. Jote spoke the Green Word's instinctive rejection:

'Abomination.'

Mjrn had been told agreement was the only rational thing, but she witnessed twinned entrancement dissolve into contempt. One spat, a transparent thread. 'Leave it, Cam. We can learn this place better from books.'

'Wait!' Mjrn could not care for their mouths, but this was a harsher bereavement than her first. 'Your s-sire would have called me—us—your aunts.'

Possibly Jote was spurred by duty or care to dull Mjrn's anxieties; her words wrapped Mjrn in a fog where no challenging shape could rise to endanger her. The Wood offered unequivocal safety.

The twins communicated with the silent fluency of those guaranteed completed understanding. The salvation they offered smelled of discharged guns and oiled leather.

'We are not welcome here, aunt, but you are welcome with us.'

Mjrn's breath rattled in her lungs. It was past time to correct her mistakes.


	2. Chapter 2

Vaan walks through Balfonheim aerodrome, purposeful. From the discontented mumble, the staff in his wake are shocked at his presence.

The streets are comfortably busy. Smoke from industry clouds the sky. Vaan stops at an open garage, looking puzzled, until an old woman tells him off for disrupting the traffic. Vaan apologises, unconcerned. He checks a scrap of paper confirming the address and enters.

The garage is empty but clean, well used. The long wall bears a tidy rack of tools. Vaan examines the display. Many tools are of unusual composition.

Vaan's puzzled expression eases. He nods to himself.

Balthier and Fran step through a door, which swings closed on a tiny kitchen. Balthier is wiping grease from his hands. Surprised to see Vaan, he drops the rag.

'Look who finally crawled home.'

'Flew, actually.'

'Of course.'

Pleased, Vaan and Balthier shake hands, then Vaan and Fran. Balthier disappears into the kitchen and returns c radling three dripping beers. Fran opens them barehanded, giving Vaan his first.

'Wow. Never thought you two would even choke on something this cheap.'

Balthier's smile fades.

'Take it easy, boss, I'm joking!'

'We're not.'

Discomforted, Vaan drinks deeply.

'We've rediscovered pragmatism as a way of life,' Balthier says.

* * *

Behind the garage, Balthier, Fran and Vaan stand in a narrow alleyway. A spiral stair rises to an apartment, window pots growing ferns. They look at a partly-built contraption. Vaan toes a greasy chain coiled by the tire.

'So that's a motorbike, huh?'

'Combustion proves a viable substitute,' Fran says.

Vaan groans. 'Listen, this is great, but I'm looking for help, not substitutes. I want to rebuild the Galbana...'

Delicate, Balthier puts his beer bottle on the ground. The other two watch as he climbs the stair to the apartment, and closes the door.

A moment later, the shutters slam.

Fran looks at Vaan. 'Moogles still fly. Ask them.'

'Except they're not prone to sharing secrets.'

'They do trade. I'll bet Nono owes you still, for Jylland.'

Lips pursed, Vaan nods. 'At least you haven't lost it. Aw, Fran, talk Balthier into coming, will you? You two add a lot of clout.'

Fran hesitates. 'Balthier's not good with disappointment.'

'So what? What's the alternative, surrender?'

'Combustion.'

'Birdshit. The Rozarrians gave that up for a bad job centuries ago. Why try again now?'

Fran holds out her hand. Surprised, Vaan pauses before taking it.

'The Mist cannot be trusted,' Fran says. 'Farewell.'

* * *

Nono celebrates Yearsend in an Ambervale bar, all heavy wood and low ceiling beams. The lanterns hang at Vaan's eye level, the oil adding to the smoke. Vaan navigates carefully to avoid collisions. He is the only Hume in the bar.

Reaching Nono's table, he squats to join the four Moogles. The conversation stops.

Vaan grins broadly, and drums his palms on the wood. 'It's been a while. Penelo sends her best.'

Nono looks away.

'Come on. Can't even share a drink, is that it?'

With a sigh, Nono shoos his friends. Ears flat, the three do not go far.

Nono rounds on Vaan. 'You've been looking for me for weeks, idiot, leaving a trail in every Moogle bar. And you didn't order a drink in any of them!'

'No need for that tone. We were friends once. Remember? Reckon you'd have the Brillante I out of Ordalia without my help?'

'Ah.'

'Yes, ah! You owe me.'

'What do you want?'

'I'm a skypirate, Nono, in this day and age. What d'ya think I want?'

Nono nods, reluctant. 'Dusk tomorrow, behind the Ytanvillde. You know it?'

'Yep.' Vaan pats Nono on the back, enthusiastic. 'Thanks.'

Nono is disgruntled. 'Be discreet!'

* * *

At dusk, in an alley, a hooded Nono offers a roll of blueprints. 'It's the best I can do.'

Vaan turns the roll to read the titleblock.

'Draklor—!'

'Their latest engineering release. You didn't get them from me, right?'

'As if I can trust Draklor—'

'It's all you're getting! No way can I risk giving you Moogle design.'

'Will it work?'

Nono looks down. 'No reason why not.'

'Tell me something else, how did the Moogles know this was going to happen? Your lot never stopped flying. You were prepared!'

'You were at Pharos. How could you not know?'

* * *

The glossair fails in bright fits and spurts. Draklor's secret Mist engineering does not compensate. The failure is in the Mist itself, not the mechanics.

As the ship tilts, Vaan stands calmly on the engineering deck.

At Pharos, Vaan witnessed the destruction of a shard, blind to the immense backlash of Mist. Bahamut had been there to absorb and use the Mist, delaying the end. When Bahamut went down, Ivalice again bore the unrestrained Mist-storm, with none to know what price to pay for their freedom from false gods.

The Galbana goes down with none but her crew to witness.


	3. Chapter 3

Today is Balthier's fifty-fifth birthday. He wakes alone.

He goes to Fran's blankets. He wears richly tailored pyjamas, if faded. His knee pokes through a frayed patch as he bends to touch Fran's pillow, which still shows the curve from her head.

Mist rises at his touch. Puzzled, he says her name.

Balthier wanders their apartment. His puzzled expression does not fade. The furnishing sparse, there are several vases filled with ferns, and Balthier's passing makes them shiver.

'I feel like more of a ghost than you do. It's the ghosts who linger. Ah, well, on with it, eh?'

* * *

He wakes alone.

Outside the bathroom, Balthier falls, gasping. He pulls a handkerchief from his pyjama sleeve, and mops his brow. His free hand claws at his stomach.

He showers.

After his shower, he stands naked at the basin, and unfolds a cutthroat razor taken from behind the mirror. He looks at the blade, then his reflection. He puts the blade against the glass, listening to the ratatat as his hand shakes. He folds the cutthroat away without shaving.

In his bedroom, he starts dressing. Stops. He shakes his head. He towels himself dry, then tries dressing again. His clothes are cut from the same pattern as those worn fifteen years ago.

'What better getup to suit a skypirate without a sky, than a style as outdated as the profession? Ha. What do you think Cid would've felt about that, eh? Take the Mist's retaliation as personally as Ffamran's failure? Can you see it, the good Doctor, challenging nature itself as a postscript to his daring deconstruction of deity!'

Balthier laughs. The bathroom comes alive with echoes. Naked and wet, Balthier holds a cutthroat against a month-thick beard.

Gleeful, he calls, 'Fran, did you hear me laugh at nothing—?'

* * *

The scarf refuses to sit in a flattering manner, or perhaps Balthier's face no longer flatters the style.

Fran watches as he pulls silk from his throat. A strange thing, style: a noose, or key to open another's expectation. They once found freedom in their constancy, owned their clothes, made for their roles. Recognised. Renowned.

In the early days of the mist death, Balfonheim's children ran to them, the skypirate pair, begging to be taken to see the sky. Fran's hurt eased only because the children stopped asking and started forgetting, their horizons now firmly collared by a city's bounds. They used to gift the urchins with magicite instead of coin, the stones worth a gil or two and worthless to skypirates, so common. Now seaglass and shells prove prettier trinkets than dead grey stones.

Balthier unlaces his collar, looking less like he's trying to seem a tidy young man, when he is neither tidy nor young and sometimes doubts his manhood. He runs his fingers through his hair and stares at the strands, grey as dead magicite.

Fran curls his hand between hers, kisses his knuckles, says, 'You look fine enough without it,' and he shivers, does not hear.


	4. Chapter 4

Basch attends these meetings for Larsa.

The geniuses, the educated, and the daring still find employment in Draklor, harried as they never were when Mist flowed free as air. Chasms punctuate the agenda as Draklor divides itself: turning to new science to determine how to best harvest what Mist remains, and to old sciences, of oils and the laws of flight, not fancies of Mistcraft like the Strahl and Siren were. Engineers for the bridges, designers to activate old sewers, to write new manuals for old pumps and counterweights. The plagues come and go without palings for prevention, and Draklor divides again, studying a medicine more like war than healing.

Draklor's Chief of Development counts his heads thrice over, recruits his young staff ruthlessly, educates then re-educates then uses them to gibbering breakdown, beyond; more expertise in less skulls for less salary.

Basch is no scientist. He holds his hand to the scar cleaving his chest vertically. He too wishes Draklor had more to offer Ivalice in compensation for what they shattered so blithely. Beneath his too-thin skin Basch can still feel the wire holding his breastbone closed, as though his heart were winged, his chest just another iron cage.

* * *

Basch cannot think of Draklor without thinking of Balthier. With Bahamut shattered, House Bunansa butchered, Ivalician peace gone where the cursed Mist went, Draklor and Balthier proved Cidolphus' only surviving children. Legacy and responsibility hand in hand, Basch cared for the one, and hoped blindly for the other.

There were the similarities between man and institution, neither afraid to get their hands dirty, both entrenched in their systematic denial.

But Basch remembers more than the mistakes. He remembers Balthier's long, clever fingers scarred with Mist-scorch, gunpowder, darker than any other part of him with oil, grease, the sun's harsh kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

The aerodromes around Ivalice are either ruins, or converted to alternate use for public entertainment. With Draklor's backing, the Archadian port still functions in limited form, though Basch cannot help but see the overlay of decay; he has seen too much decay, in his life, not enough growth. But he is here now, as slow as his pace has been since his heart first failed at word of the Galbana's downfall. That day, Basch remembers, was the last time he ventured this far out of his Magister's routine.

The Solidor guards do not halt him at the door, his Magisterial uniform of cloth as recognisable as the armour. The younger on the right leaps with too much alacrity to open the portal, bowing, but the unwarranted respect makes Basch feel old and too aware he no longer tolerates the weight of arms. A pin through the collar of his shirt is the only steel on him, a blade, gifted in a farcical ceremony by Larsa's eldest son for some past heroism. Basch pricks himself every time he puts it on, cramped fingers helpless with such flourishes.

Strange that he came. Vaan's excited greeting does not resound, nor the chirruping docents in his wake. The customs counter does not frame Balthier's angling for terms on his docking bay.

But Basch does not forget his debts, nor his failures. It is not strange. He sits, tired.

Out the wide window, small transports fly on fuel, not skystone, skies hazy with smog. The flight paths across the surrendered territories are as familiar to Basch as the darkness behind his eyes. After the Galbana's fall, he enforced the old ways, so every airship daring to fly on skystone could be tracked for the inevitable salvage. Even Larsa, caught in plague, had wanted to pay respect to Vaan's body. Basch could offer his Emperor nothing but apologies.

It approaches, thwarting the horizon, huge, fluttering and white.

Basch almost touches emotion, but does not, in the same way he does not try to touch music or see hope. Nono's ship is slow and steady, balloon silk rippling. The moogle has not come for years, when Balthier and Fran came the last time in the Strahl.

Basch worries he does not remember them, but only remembers the remembering, now as real as dreams.

* * *

Nono's, yes, and Fran's ears, and— Basch stops, an arm's length distant.

'You missed a spot shaving.' Balthier thumbs a vertical line from his lower lip along his chin.

'It's the cleft in my chin.' Basch is too old for embarrassment. 'These lines become chasms, too damned difficult to shave every day.'

'As long as you know how ridiculous you look. Single stripe of white fur. I want to whip out my kerchief and wipe up the traces.'

'At least I can wear facial hair without looking like someone's grandfather.'

'If you're not someone's grandfather by now, you obviously weren't trying hard enough.'

This is Archades, and Balthier is well known here. Back when they played at heroism, Archades had so few of whom to be proud that Balthier wore it all. But he was never one to take what he did not deserve, so his visits to Archades were always pained, infrequent. When Balthier offers his hand Basch takes it, as though offered by a stranger. He pushes away his disappointment: another greeting, departure, round of shallow banter.

Balthier's fingers tighten, eyes suddenly awash. He stumbles forward so uncertainly Basch does not recognise the embrace until it swallows him.

If the embrace came from pity, then it was praiseworthy. Balthier often did praiseworthy things. But his hands are claws, and Basch feels it when Balthier's knees go. Basch is not strong enough for this.

Nono props Balthier's leg, Fran to Balthier's other side, even as it seems Balthier cannot lift his own arm to find her shoulders for support. Balthier holds his head up on his own, in defeat lowered again, eyes dark and breath shallow. Sweat runs steadily from his brow.

'Get me out of here, Basch. Please, before I shame myself in an aerodrome, where everyone knows me.'

'Easy, Balthier, easy—'

Balthier gasps. 'But if this is ease, I would rather die quickly on an Imperial's sword!'

'Fran,' Basch begins, intending, what's wrong, or perhaps, can you—, even _I am the very soul of shabbiness for not greeting you with the truth I feel for you, but there is Balthier, always, commanding centre stage—_

Balthier shakes his head abruptly, groaning. 'Oh, Basch, this will kill you. I woke, and she was gone. I came as soon as I could, it was, it was hard. I'm so sorry.'

Basch meets Fran's gaze across Balthier's nape. The horror is an unfamiliar shape, like Balthier's too-stark bones.

'He no longer sees me. Until I found Nono, this morning, Balthier was so assured I wondered if perhaps I was gone, a ghost in denial—'

'No, Fran, Fran— What is this?'

'I know not,' Balthier whispers. 'I hope she left me. The alternative is worse.'

'I know not,' Fran says. 'I hope it is fever. The alternative is worse.'

'What alternative?'

'Cidolphus once saw what was not. Perhaps Balthier no longer sees what is.'

Balthier says, 'What do you think? I'm dying, and she left me. I was supposed to live forever.'


	6. Chapter 6

Archades is the same. This surprises Fran, likewise surprised to still find surprise in this world. The sunlight is a little older, the streets dirtier; there are both less and more children, more childlike figures wandering alone and shirtless and laughing, but less of the laughter comes from that font of a child's innocence.

'I have envied you,' Basch laughs at her startlement, but always gently. 'Did you think me above envy? I am as mortal as you are.'

'But — For what I have with him?'

'For what you have,' Basch corrects, and his smile, his smile is the same.


End file.
